


Death Is The Birth Of Us.

by Cinnamon_Girl



Category: Hellboy (Movies), Hellboy - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, Dysphoria, Graphic Description, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nazi Germany, Nazi Zombie - Freeform, Occult, Political Shenanigans, Resurrection, Surpernatural, Symbolism, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-09-19 12:04:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9439292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamon_Girl/pseuds/Cinnamon_Girl
Summary: Germany, 1937.War is at every door, on everyone's tongue and hands, staining for everybody to see and shout.In the shadows of this ugly machine, three figures blend in. Two followers to a master.The clock-maker, the woman, the monk.And one dream : Blut und Ehre.





	1. Fragments and pieces.

**Author's Note:**

> The goal was to stay as close to history as possible, which means there may and WILL probably still be mistakes and errors in some retelling of historical events, but then again we're talking about a universe where Hitler helped build a magic portal to some space hell so I'm questioning how far accuracy can really go........ 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy~
> 
>  
> 
> (Note: all dialogues are in German, unless specified otherwise.)

 

 

 

 

 

_Music, maestro._

 

 

 

The allegro began, glorious and festive, his fingers followed the pace.

Inch after inch, his hand rose with the violins, dancing lightly in the air, water dripping along his arm. His other palm was busy cleaning his shoulder.

 

His face embraced the gentle stream of warmth that dripped along the rest of his body, washing away the lemon scent of soap, and his hand drifted over him to the melody. A waterfall in F major.

 

A quite joyful tune, heavy and fast, perfect for a slow waltz, one step at a time.

He spun, presenting his back to the shower head, and his closely folded arm brushed against the cold device on his chest.

 

No matter how much he had tried, his heart always remained ice-like to the touch, gold and unmoving. Still his fingers climbed Vivaldi's first movement of Autumn until the vinyl in the living room reached its end.

 

 

It had been a gift, a set with all three parts of the season, belonging to a one of a kind edition that went all the way back to his months in the French trenches, and which had been offered to him recently by his friend and colleague Von Klempt for his success inside the Thule Society.

 

 

He rubbed on the skin over his ribs and winced. He had recovered every bit of his past strength after the transition, and even more. But, for some reason, he remained far too thin to be at ease with himself. Again.

 

 _The body is treacherous_ ; Rasputin had warned him.

Still, he'd have to talk to the sorcerer about it.

 

 

The music had long been replaced by the steady falls of droplets, and the ticking in his ribcage.

Autumn had been the last set missing from his Vivaldi collection. Outside, winter had already settled in Berlin.

 

He forced himself to rub his flesh some more, turning it from pallid to soft red.

His heart was still beating the rhythm long after the tune had died.

 

 

He was completing himself. Recomposing slowly. Surely.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Ilsa Haupstein blew the smoke out of her lungs, uncrossing her legs.

 

She folded them to the side, wrapped in red from ankles to throat, and sighed. Her cigarette hanging between manicured fingers looking outrageously out of place in the Victorian room.

 

The ornate mirror, as worn as it was large, was giving her the image of the typical German woman icon. Blonde, elaborately short hair, alabaster skin, black rimmed eyes. Opulence made steel behind liquid blue pupils and scarlet lips. The future of the Reich.

She wished she didn't have to wait.

 

 

The note had come from Himmler himself, with the hour and the address she was summoned at. As much as it now annoyed her to be seen as secretary before head of delegation, she still couldn't refuse a request from the minister of interior.

Request that she still didn't know anything about, for that matter. Her experience was telling her that it was either because she had merely a minor role to play in this affair, and in that case she wouldn't complain about getting this over with as quickly as possible, or Himmler wasn't the main organizer.

But Rasputin would have contacted her directly if this concerned the Society…

 

She bit a long, black painted nail. Wouldn't he ?

 

The heavy doors opened, waking her from her wondering, and a lithe, petite frame entered.

 

Ilsa caught herself briefly squinting. The girl -for it had to be a girl- must have been barely over 5 feet. A child, in her eyes.

Buried under layers of thick clothes with strangely complex pattern, she advanced as if she was gliding over the parquet floor rather than walking and, with fuzzy dark hair curving her round face, she appeared blurred against the vividness of the room.

 

A shadow of light, a trick of the sun paling in through the curtained-framed windows. As if someone had taken a photography and discovered that she had appeared like a ghost of ink...

 

 

Ilsa didn't rise, merely crushed her cigarette in the ashtray on the wooden table when this unknown apparition spotted her, instantly moving in her direction.

She was smiling (something odd that Ilsa immediately decided she wasn't liking) and extended a gloved, frail hand.

 

“You is _missis_ Haupstein ?” she asked, and there was no mistaking the Russian accent weighting her attempt at speaking German. By her voice, Ilsa wasn't giving her more than 17 years. “I very happy to meet you.”

 

 

She shook her hand in rapid civility, still eyeing her. “And you are ?”

“Vassili Pheodora.” claimed someone outside.

 

Now that was a voice she was much reassured to hear.

She stood up, absentmindedly smoothing down her dress as Rasputin himself walked past the doors.

 

The sorcerer raised his arms to them, as if presenting two contestants to an invisible crowd, and Ilsa was surprised to see him wear a suit more fit for a man of office rather than a priest tied to the infamous Romanov family.

 

“Ilsa, please meet my niece, Vassili. She arrived only yesterday evening.”

 

 

The woman's gaze went from Rasputin to the young girl and back. She was no expert, but not only was there not even the slightest bit of familial resemblance between the two Russians, but she was quite certain that her master didn't have any relatives left alive, and this since way before her birth.

 

 

At least, it confirmed her thoughts. This was a public matter, the situation had nothing private to message her secretly about.

She offered a polite smile. “A pleasure to meet you, darling. Is it your first time in Germany ?”

“ _Da_. Uncle said I can be here for pray day.”

"Is that so ?” This time, she glanced at Rasputin.

 

 

 _Buß- und Bettag_ , the Day of Repentence and Prayer, was a public holiday due to happen in about a week.

 

Officialy, anyway. For it was also the date set for one of the most important gathering of Thule this year. The winter gala. Was he seriously ready to bring a child into such an event…? A highly restricted one at that.

 

 

She listened to them exchanging brief words in Russian, roughly understanding that he was sending young Vassili away for some reason or another.

Once the girl was out of sight, she sighed openly.

 

“What age do you give her ?” Rasputin suddenly inquired.

“ _Grigori_...”

“So very child-like, isn't she ? But...” His thumb caressed one of the many rings at his right hand. “What lies within her is older than any of us.”

 

Ilsa stared. “She's not your niece.”

It had been a statement, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk.

 

“Let's say that she is, for the time being. She will be there for the gathering.”

She nodded, but it was clear that she was conflicted and, most of all, skeptical. He gently used two fingers to turn her head back towards him.

“Difficult times are upon us, _zolotse_. But fear not, it is why I have brought her here.”

 

Her eyes fell to his lips. She gripped her own wrist to avoid doing something that wouldn't be proper in this instant, and nodded.

 

“In the meantime, (He turned away from her, she breathed.) it is important that she meet us.”

His attention seemed to linger on the mirror, and she pondered what he could be seeing. But he only muttered.

 

 

“ _All_ of us.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The car stopped in front of the RSHA headquarters and Kroenen thanked the driver.

 

A slight breeze was waving the larger-than-life red banners displaying the Reich's _hakenkreuz_ , and he put on his cap with the hint of a smile.

The use of the sacred Swastika had been the topic of conversation during his very first meeting with the Führer himself.

 

Choosing a religious symbol to represent a political party was a source of controversy, and many disregarded it as a way to summarize and show the ideal of purity of both body and mind which was praised by the National Socialists. But Kroenen knew all too well that, for a man who had set his views on the lodge of Thule from the beginning, it could only be a sign of vision and ambition.

 

And it was thanks to this man that he now bore the jet black uniform of an _Obersturmbannführer_ of the SS organization.

Sliding on his pair of round sunglasses, he made his way to the building, climbing the wide stone stairs with quick steps as several officers were taking the time to salute him in his path.

 

 

The entrance was busy in the late morning, with workers coming out for lunch, soldiers striding left and right to reach one counter or another, secretaries dodging not-so-courteous fellows on their way in and messengers running to deliver their mail.

 

As much as this human agitation made his skin crawl if he started to think about it for more than two minutes, Kroenen couldn't deny the feeling of belonging that took him everytime he passed the tall Greek columns lining the headquarters' main hall.

Many were turning around at the sight of him, either to hurry away, or to zealously welcome him back to the Main Security Office.

 

His rise through the ranks hadn't gone unnoticed, and whispers also started spreading as he went deeper and further into the building. No one really knew what to do but to bow or flee in front of such a youthful looking commander who was rumored to be on the Führer's good side.

He had that aura of mystery that he was all too glad to maintain, as it never failed to reveal who had a genuine interest in him and who was silently praying for him to disappear as soon as possible so _they_ could work _their_ way up instead.

 

A quick clapping of boots against the tiling behind him prompted him to slow down and then stop altogether as he recognized who was running to reach him.

 

“Karl !” Hermann Voss greeted him, coming to a halt before him with a smirk. “And me who was starting to think that you working here was merely a myth.”

“Christian,” Kroenen said, not without some disbelief, and eagerly shook the hand he was offering him. “What are you doing here ?”

 

Voss and him had met at the Ludwig Maximilian University in Munich, during their respective medical studies. They had only parted during WWI, when Voss was taken out of the battlefield as they were both improvised combat medics, and graduated some two years before he did. Since then, they had scarcely taken the time to do more than wave at each other on their respective paths to success.

 

“I came to enlist in the _Schutzstaffel_ medical corps.” Voss beamed. “I'm still teaching in Leipzig but look at you ! (He started pointing out the many insignias on the SS's plastron.) I'm leaving and you become a medal-holder.”

Kroenen scoffed, shaking his head as he gestured for his friend to walk with him. He was, after all, a busy man.

 

“Five minutes in this place is enough to learn every degrading lies the poor souls trapped here have to say about me, so what about you ? Are you really teaching ?”

Hermann made a face. “Not by choice. I started as assistant anatomist, but the Leipzig University was the only one willing to make a better offer. I find that career advancement has become… (He cleared his throat.) Difficult. I hope the party will have more opportunities for me, so here I am.”

 

And here was the National Socialism at work, Kroenen thought. He nodded. “Of course it will.”

“You know me Karl, I'd do anything to dive back into my researches, but instead I'm stuck with _children_. Can you believe I still have _Jews_ in my classes ? Surely the Führer--”

“I'll talk to him.”

 

Voss blinked. His friend merely smiled, taking his glasses off to hang them to his chest pocket.

“I'll try to get a word to the Führer, about you. It's great that you came here Christian, we have… _Projects_ , that still require time, but I'm sure they'll be of high interest for you.”

“So it is true...” Voss let out, staring at the commander who used to be his colleague. “You went far. Are you sure...”

“Positive. Come on, you have to accept. For me.”

This time, Hermann laughed.

 

“For you ? Anything. The _Führer_ … I can't believe this, you managed to become even crazier than back in the days.”

 

_You have no idea, Christian…_

 

He could explain. Voss was a smart man, one of those scientists that weren't slowed down by their own morals.

But this was bigger than Voss, or him, even.

 

“Oh, before I forget.”

He turned one last time to face his once-colleague, who raised a finger while trying to remember.

“Some Kurtz is waiting in your office.”

 

Kroenen raised an eyebrow. Was he ?

“Thank you, and good luck.”

 

Voss gave him a half-mocking salute, and they parted once more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He found Leopold Kurtz standing behind his own desk, going over whatever paper he had found lying there, it apparently didn't matter if anything on there was classified.

 

He sighed, loudly, to be heard. A good thing he always kept the files of national importance away from curious hands.

Kurtz raised his rough shaped face to welcome him with a nod. “ _Obersturmbannführer._ ”

 

“Professor. Have I missed a memo ? I was not aware that we were supposed to meet.”

“We weren't.” the man said, disregarding the papers altogether to circle over towards Kroenen. “Instructions. They come and they go.

 

“So they do...” They ended up switching places, and he finally sat down where he had every rights to while Kurtz settled in the chair reserved for any and all guests. “Is it about the gathering ?”

“Yes… (He shrugged.) And no.”

 

Karl found that they were now far enough from the hurly-burly of life for him to hear the ticks and tocks of his heart. Mechanically, he started drumming lightly on the desk, waiting.

 

 

“As I'm sure you know, times are changing. The Reich becomes stronger with each passing day, the Führer's ambitions are about to bring us a step closer to our goals, and so you'll understand that we as leaders grow more and more… _Cautious_.”

 

So this was about the Society. He stopped his absentminded rhythm to steeple his fingers. Kurtz resumed, leaning forward :

“A few days ago, our sources found that Rasputin had been trying to usher a contact of his in German territory. Turns out, said contact arrived yesterday, directly from USSR.”

 

Kroenen frowned, his thin blonde brows furrowing. Rasputin would have taken an action of any sort without telling them ? It was unlike the sorcerer to act without warning the lodge beforehand.

“Do we know this contact ?” he asked, and Kurtz's answers was to drop several pictures on the desk.

 

“Those were all taken last night, at Tempelhof Airport.” he explained, and the commander went through them, casting them aside one by one once he was done examining them.

He recognized Rasputin's opulent beard and shaved head, all right, as well as several soldiers whom he had already seen on patrol.

 

But not the whitish blur beside them.

 

The night-setting surely wasn't helping, but he could clearly see a human shape in this strange fog that looked so much like a stain on the camera lens. And it was like this on every shot. Spontaneous smoke walking beside the sorcerer, who was looking down at it like he was talking to it...

 

 

“Jamming technology ?” he wondered aloud, as puzzled as the lodge must have been.

“Whatever it is, we've never seen anything like it before. And as I said, we cannot take any risks… Not now.”

 

Really ? Was it what this was about ? “The fact that this contact is Soviet shouldn't concern us. The Führer has plans...”

“It should, _Obersturmbannführer_. Our relations with the Soviet Union are far from being settled.”

“Rasputin would never--”

“And this is why we are appealing to you.”

 

Either his heart was ticking faster, or he now had blood beating at his temples. How dare they question his master's loyalty to their cause…

He crossed his arms, standing to tower over Kurtz with all his height. “ _Me_ ?”

 

If Kurtz was disturbed by the change in atmosphere, he didn't show it. “You. You are closer to Rasputin than any of us, Kroenen.”

 

(A barely concealed smile. These fools were underestimating Ilsa Haupstein. He allowed him to go on.)

 

“I apologize if I have offended you, but you more than anyone else understand the hard times we find ourselves in. We cannot leave anything to luck alone, and as a protector of the German Reich, it is _your_ duty to prevent any outsider from harming your country.”

 

It was true. He was a SS commander before being a servant of the occult, before even being a scientist himself.

But risking the trust Rasputin had in him…

Kurtz -damn him- must have seen some of this inner conflict showing, as he stood up in turn, but without any hostility to be found.

 

“Karl… May I call you Karl ? You are probably the sharpest mind the lodge has to offer, your works on the human body are purely astonishing, and your skills as a mechanic were never in dispute either, one just has to so much as glimpse at your blueprints to see it. So it is with a sound spirit that we give you this mission, for we know that you understand all too well how important it is for us to secure our victory.”

 

He understood.

He had made up his mind anyway.

 

“I'll find out who Rasputin's contact is, and why they are here.”

 

 

The only right decision he could make was to have faith. Faith in his master. Faith that he'd never betray the lodge. Ever.

 

 

Kurtz gave a courteous, grateful bow, and walked out. But not before stopping at the office's door.

His smile was almost too big for his narrow face when he turned. “You are changing, _Obersturmbannführer_ , don't think we haven't noticed.”

 

And then, right before leaving for good : “Between us, for someone who opened a clock shop, I find yours surprisingly loud.”

 

 

The door closed and, like a trap, the sudden urge to clean himself fell on him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Cover your dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The diamonds weighted on her ears. She'd rather have them on her knuckles to punch the one who offered them to her.

 

The very same who had the bouquet of red roses specially delivered to her apartment. It was still on the armchair where she had found it, dripping petals on her bedroom floor.

She gathered her goldfall of hair upon her neck. As if she was still a naive gymnast waiting for someone to throw glitter in her eyes.

 

 

She heard the whisper of shifting sheets behind her and smiled.

“You would be stunning in black.”

 

Grigori sat up on the bed, half lying against the headboard.

“The color of death for a deadly woman.”

“I have no one to mourn.” she replied, busy thickening her lashes.

“Yet.”

 

He slid closer, to the end of the mattress, scarlet fabric covering his naked form. “We all mourn. Something, somewhere. Or else why would you mask yourself as you do now ?”

She bit her lips. She wanted to smoke, pondered if he would mind.

 

“This mask is what make doors open everywhere I go.”

“Hiding goes hand in hand with dying.” he said, watching her take a cigarette from the side of the table.

She lit it up on the candle beside her. “Do you know why we cover the face of the dead ?” Rasputin asked, “It comes from a pagan fear. The belief that the spirit of the deceased could escape through the mouth.”

 

She exhaled toxic curls, found her throat closing on her as if she was trying to keep something in.

He had that effect on her.

 

Grigori Rasputin, the wicked monk, eternal sorcerer, host to the God he worships.

Her master, her lover, who threw his legs out of the bed to sit closer to her, run his hands on her bare back, rough tattooed palms against her spine.

She stilled, let him zip up the dress pooling at her waist, felt his breath between her shoulder-blades.

 

“When we die, we cover ourselves with masks to swallow our mourning. Tell me...” Warm lips came trailing goosebumps on her skin. “How many times have you died, _pchelka_ …?”

 

She shivered.

 

_By your hands, not enough…_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_The first time had him hissing, muscles tensing, but his grip didn't loosen._

_The ache had melted once he had relaxed into the water, turning into delightful spreading heat the moment he pulled once more._

 

_He switched hands, letting his head fall back with a gasp, his body sinking deeper in the bath as his fingers slipped on his flesh._

_He started leaking, dirtying the water keeping him warm, and his chest heaved with each mouthful of air he was sharply taking._

 

_Release coursed through him like a numbing drug in his veins, legs relaxing while he spilled himself raw._

 

_The tub was stained red with the blood from his wrists, and he let the razor fall to the ground with a clinking sound. The light dripped from his eyes, crystal blue dulling to a near grey, his lungs emptying one last time…_

 

Kroenen blinked. Shaking himself out of the memory, his gaze focusing back on the blade he was sharpening on his lap.

The weapon was silver clean, immaculate, unused yet. There was no water, and the dark spots dancing at the edge of his vision weren't there because he was still bleeding somewhere.

 

His mind felt like fragmenting, unraveling, and when he started seeing crimson blend into the glass on his desk he put on his gloves just to empty it in the nearby plant.

The dilemma was getting to him, into him, into his head, and he wished he could unhear the ticking of his own heart. The more he thought about it, the more it felt like the arm of a clock cutting into his very brain…

 

He breathed.

No.

 

Not now. Not when he had a mission to accomplish.

He wouldn't go insane again.

 

He could remember the days of walking in circles under his own roof, clawing at his sheets, lying on his bathroom floor with a gun on his chest. Nothing to gain, nothing left to lose. Nothing.

Nothing but Rasputin's voice guiding him through the hell of his misery.

 

His master. His maker. The one who took him out of his own abyss, yet he still felt like floating in his own blood.

But he was grateful. Grateful and faithful. For being alive and breathing and beati-- _Ticking._

 

Absentmindedly, he brought a hand to his chest before putting back the pristine blade back in its case, crossed with its exact twin. He brushed a wandering, gloved finger against the words engraved into the steel.

 

_Alles für Deutchland._

 

Everything for Germany.

 

He should inform Rasputin of his relapses…

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Pariserplatz was busy in the afternoon.

Noisy cars, bikes in a hurry, the occasional stray dog. Even on her bench, at a considerable distance from the road, Ilsa wasn't safe from the racket of Berlin : children singing hand in hand, women chatting loudly, aloof businessmen striding down the street.

 

If she was anyone other than herself, she would have felt small, for the Platz seemed incomparably huge from where she sat.

She, for one, liked the sensation of vastness. It sounded like a challenge. How can you serve a country this big…?

 

_Watch and learn._

 

She caught sight of a group of soldiers when glancing to the side, and sighed. They were coming in, laughing and obnoxious.

Inevitably, they stopped a few feet away from her, and she heard the many whispers of crude appreciation all the way from her once-peaceful spot. One of them snickered and pushed his friend forward, to which many started whistling when he walked straight to the lonely, very pretty woman who clearly needed company…

 

Said -very comfortable alone, thank you very much- woman was ready to roll her eyes at him until the poor fool suddenly stopped dead in his track, looking past her like he was seeing a ghost.

 

“Don't you have a patrol to attend to, _soldier_ ?” said a powerful voice behind, and she smirked.

There he was. Fashionably late.

 

She watched the boys jump into their military posture, raise a hand to their forehead dripping with cold sweat.

“Y-- Yes Obersturmbannführer !”

 

Kroenen sat down with a tired grunt beside Ilsa, who laughed quietly. “You know, I could have handled this.”

“I was being kind, you would have eviscerated them.”

 

Fair enough. They remained in silence for some time, observing the cars go back and forth, before any one of them finally decided to talk.

“You wanted to see me.” he said.

She gave him a puzzled look. “Last time I checked, you told me to wait here.”

“Then it is a mutually beneficial meeting.”

 

This time, she turned to him, clearly unamused. “What do you want Karl ?”

 

He still had this indescribably sharp, thoughtful profile, that never failed to remind her of some Greek sculpture. A man cut in stone, as cold as marble.

“Kurtz came to me. The lodge wants me to investigate on Rasputin's behavior.”

 

“ _They--_ How _dare_ \-- Why…?”

He remained unblinking. Clearly, he had been expecting such a reaction out of her. “The tension with the Soviets is at an all time high-...”

“After they _begged him_ for an alliance ?!”

 

He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and think, wetting his lips while pondering how to present the situation to her. She was angry now, it felt like her default emotion these days.

“I said I would.” he confessed, and her hand stilled when she was looking inside her handbag. “I know. You're seconds away from calling me a bastard and, while I'd be inclined to agree with you on that point, you could also listen to what I have to say like the adult you are.”

 

He was wearing those sunglasses every high ranked seemed to favor lately. She never really paid attention to it until she realized that he was simply wearing them _too much_.

She clenched her jaw and held her tongue, like she was used to do to fool men that would never be even one eighth as smart as he was. She was done fetching for her cigarette and twirled it between her fingers to keep herself quiet.

 

He wasn't facing her when he started : “Two days ago the lodge received words that he had been seen at the airport, welcoming an unknown contact. Now they wouldn't have to worry, even when this damn treaty still has to be signed, if it wasn't for the fact that he didn't tell a soul about this. (He sighed.) He still hasn't, for that matter.”

 

So that's what it was all about. Ilsa relaxed, and Kroenen noticed.

“No...” he corrected himself, straightening rather abruptly, as if pulled by strings. “You knew about this.”

“I didn't. Until yesterday.”

 

He was looking at her over the tinted circles of his glasses now. Shards of ice that fell to her lips when she brought the cigarette up.

She hadn't seen him rummaging in the pocket of his coat until he lifted a lighter to her face.

 

It seemed absurd for him to have one, it was faded gold and oddly sharp. But it made such a loud clicking noise when the lithe flame sprung that she winced and wondered if he hadn't made it himself from scratch.

She still remembered how weird it had been, at the beginning, to walk into his office and discover the many tools on the desk, the grease stained papers and him, looking up like a cat caught playing with a half gored open mouse.

She shrugged the thought off with her smile.

 

“Himmler notified me. He merely served as an intermediary : I was to be at a given address by the morning.”

“Where ?” He watched her release her smoke.

“Not sure. Probably one of his residences in the suburbs. He wanted it to look like a diplomatic meeting.”

 

He held to her telling, but mostly to the tobacco stick hanging from the corner of her mouth. She glared at him and sighed :

“ _Master_ was there, ( _Take it or leave it, commander._ She handed him the cigarette with a dry, annoyed gesture.) but not alone. There was a girl.”

“A _girl_?” he repeated, the word partly muffled with his lips busy drawing poison for his nerves. She never really took him as the smoking type. He gave it right back after inhaling once.

 

“Yes.” she said. “He introduced her as her niece and told me he'd bring her to the celebration next week.”

He frowned, resuming his previous thinking posture.

She didn't have to remind him how problematic the situation could be, and as much as she was ready to argue body and soul to defend Rasputin, she couldn't ignore the fact that he was hiding things.

From the lodge ? She could hardly care. But from the both of them…

 

“Tell me about her.” Kroenen asked after a moment. “What she looks like.”

“Brown hair, eyes, round face… She wore traditional clothes, rich ones. I'm guessing she lives in Moscow or around, you just can't find fabric like this everywhere, not in these times.”

“Do you know her name ?”

“He called her Vassili… I can't fully recall her name. Phero-… Pheodora ?”

He shook his head. “Never heard before. Come on, you can do better.”

“It just didn't stick with me ! It didn't feel like it belonged to her. It's not her real name, I'm sure of it.”

That wasn't good. If all it took was for him to rouse her a little, then that just wouldn't do. She decided against telling him more if he asked…

 

Thankfully, he didn't.

“Alright.” he nodded, standing up and pulling at the front of his coat. “I'll see what I can find.”

 

She finished her cigarette in one long, irritated breath.

“Don't think I approve of this. I know very well the stakes at risk, but he is our _master…”_ The stub was crushed on the side of the bench, and she kept him right where he was with a heavy glare. “If you lack faith, then you're no better than the puppets of Thule.”

 

Something clenched. Not just his loose fist at his side, but something inside him. She could feel it, feel the cold anger of his eyes…

But to whom was it aimed at ?

 

“Know that this is _exactly_ why I agreed to this. My faith is what prompted my decision, because I _know_ I have nothing to be afraid of, I _know_ that I will find absolutely nothing ever coming close to treason _because_ this is master we're taking about. (He smiled, something cruel, like an execution.) No Ilsa, I haven't forgotten. And if you think that being faithful lies in warming one's bed then you should find a better way of believing.”

 

She could rise and slap him. She wanted to.

Instead, she bit her cheek.

He is _Obersturmbannführer_. He is your _ally_. She held her chin high and proud. “She's not human.”

 

He blinked. “The girl,” she said. “she's not human.”

Surely, she could have kept that as something for him to find out, but she didn't want love to blind her. If Rasputin was keeping secrets from them, then _they_ ought to find out which, and _why_.

 

There was uncertainty in Kroenen's gaze, as if she was considering her words more carefully, all of them.

She frowned. Had she always be able to read him like this ? In the four years since their first encounter, she couldn't remember when he started having tremors in his right hand, nor thin scars along his jaw. Maybe she was becoming aware of him…

Or maybe it was the other way around, and he was the one revealing himself to her, letting the many turning cogs of him slip in plain sight.

 

“Karl.”

 

Again, he hid behind the glasses.

 

“How do you feel ?”

 

She knew fully well that her concern didn't reach her eyes nor her heart. That much being clear, he scoffed.

 

“Terrible. Good day to you, miss Haupstein.”

 

 

Her entire being belonged to Rasputin. Body and soul, she had decided. But something bone chilling which she called her instinct told her as she watched that man walk away that he may have given all that already.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Ashes falling into hair, milk-melted skin.

 

Lips the color of spring fruits, round ocean eyes.

 

The woman was sit and unmoving, like an icon ready for a portrait.

Gems were on her head, weighting on the delicate bones of her long neck. Gems were on her throat, her dress, her wrists, gems were everywhere. She was blinding in wealth and delicate beauty.

 

Ephemeral, all the way to the bullet wound in her chest.

 

Rasputin stared, with the horrifying stillness of a hunter catching sight of a perfect creature whom his human nature only wish to kill.

Too late for that.

 

Alexandra Feodorovna, Empress of Russia, smiled at him.

 

“Please. Don't do that.” he said, in his mothertongue.

 

Vassili laughed.

“Why, I have done nothing at all.”

 

Still, her gaze held a question, one he had always refused to answer out loud.

_Who do you see ?_ A question he will kept on refusing to answer.

 

The woman lowered her head, her hands. She sat straighter in her chair. Grigori watched before focusing back on his reading.

 

The dead _Tsarina_ of the mother country was standing beside him, and he wondered what kind of spirit he had led out of the Pandora box.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
